The letter he enclosed is from Wang Ping.
. . Very upset to hear you’ve been targeted in the Campaign Against Spiritual Pollution. But this is your fate, accept it quietly and try to control your temper. . One of the many men chasing me is a Party cadre who lectures on the evils of Spiritual Pollution, of all things. What a strange world. . Anything exciting happening in Beijing? Hangzhou’s cold and gloom deadens the soul. . As you know, Hangzhou Daily was planning to send me abroad this year, but the head of the local tourist department demanded his daughter go instead, so that was the end of that. I’m not giving up though. I’ve applied to do an MA in the States. I’m taking the TOEFL exam in November. I’m bound to do well. I have a degree in English literature, after all. I will keep this to myself though for the time being, just in case. .
I remember you saying you needed a break. Why not visit me in Hangzhou? I’ll show you the sites. If you do come, make sure you bring a copy of The Van Gogh Story, or any other foreign book you can find in Beijing.
The letter is dated 19 February. Since her work unit is attached to mine I did not contact her before I left in case she would be compromised. Besides, I thought she had gone abroad. From the tone of the letter, it seems she likes me.
Hu Sha writes from Beijing.
I warn you, Ma Jian, loneliness is inevitable, it hides within us like death. But art can transform our loneliness into a tree, and from its high branches we can study the crowds below. . Don’t forget, this is a ruthless society. We must unite and build a force for change. . Fan Cheng and I are busy editing our next edition of The New Era. Your poem is too long, I can only use a few verses. . Held another secret reading last month. That Czech girl came again, we get on very well. Problem is we’re both trying to free ourselves from the yoke of political oppression, so it’s clear from the start we have no future together. .
I talked to my students about Thomas Paine the other day, and I sense my leaders are about to turn on me. They haven’t said anything yet, but I’m going to fake a hepatitis test, just in case. . Remember to disseminate our ideas as you travel around the country — the future of China depends on our struggles. .
His letter takes me back to our dissident circle in Beijing. We huddled together and cursed society but never came up with an alternative. I remember the fear in Hu Sha’s bloodshot eyes when he recited his subversive poem to us one night. ‘Because I sing for the sun/ I must follow in its wake/ I convene the oppressed and the abandoned. .’ It was the same look of panic he had the time we were attacked by some thugs in a dumpling restaurant.
The next letter is written on prescription paper, and is signed Chen Hong.
I’ve been practising at Miyun Hospital since June. It’s way out in the Beijing suburbs. I am often sent into the countryside to perform vasectomies and ligations. When I return at night I cannot eat a thing. After a day’s hard work, I read and write. On Sundays I am usually too tired to go home. My room is on the first floor of the doctors’ dormitory block. My window looks out onto the mortuary and the wide fields beyond. The purity of sky and air reminds me of the poem you sent me. I like it. It is cleansing, full of vigour. You insert your scalpel at just the right point. But you must go more to the source of things, and for that you cannot rely entirely on your personal experiences. Have I spoken out of turn?
. . I wrote the first lines of a new poem last night: ‘Inside my reconstructed wooden house/ I try to forget the wood/ And the window/ And accept there is no road that will lead from my two hands/ To you. .’ Fan Cheng and I have broken up. I hear he’s gone to Xinjiang. You men always have an escape route. .
I sent a copy of your poem to Lu Ping as you asked. She was discharged from hospital in May, a shadow of her former self. She will never walk again. Don’t worry though, her boyfriend is taking good care of her. .
Chen Hong’s delicate characters slant like blades of grass in the wind. I like her poetry. When a colleague of mine asked me to help his girlfriend get an abortion, I asked Chen Hong to sort it out, although she was still at medical school at the time. She must think I fathered the child because she has never mentioned it since.
There is a telegram from Guangzhou which reads: ‘happy birthday loneliness is my water filter it nurtures me.’ I guess it is from Lingling.
Another Hangzhou postmark. Wang Ping again.
Dear Ma Jian, I got your letter today. So you really have gone! I can’t believe it. I sent a letter to Nanxiao Lane a few months ago, but never heard back. I thought you were ignoring me. . The dried flowers are beautiful, I’ve stuck them into my notebook. To think you have spent the last six months roaming the Great North-West! I can picture you now, dragging your long shadow across the desert, the sun beating on your back. How exciting! I wish I could be with you. . My life is so dull, I would like to disappear and have done with it all. . I go running every morning. After work I write for an hour, study some English and go to sleep at twelve. On Saturdays I compere the Chinese acrobatic show at the Hangzhou Hotel. .
In your letter you wrote: ’Life must be nice when you are in love.’ I was shocked. It is the first time I have heard you say anything remotely positive about life. It made me think of that windy day you took me to the Forbidden City. Do you remember? You wrapped my scarf a little tighter around my neck and said, ’How nice to have found a friend like you.’ And they said it was the coldest day of the year. .
Stay off the cigarettes and liquor. I will buy you some brandy if you come to Hangzhou. Inside the parcel you will find a jar of King Bee Honey and a bag of malt extract. . I kiss your evil claws.
I look at the carefully stitched parcel, and imagine the look of blank intent on Wang Ping’s face as she sewed it together in the post office. Her face is not always blank. Sometimes it breaks into a smile and you can see her two little pointed canines. She has long straight hair, writes short stories and newspaper articles and knows the words to some American songs.
Lingling has sent me a parcel too. It contains five rolls of colour film, a bag of chocolate and a packet of crushed biscuits.
Fan Cheng writes to say he has given up his job at the tax office and run away to Xinjiang. I know he will be all right. When he was sent to breed horses in Inner Mongolia he managed to kill a rabid dog once with a single piece of wire. He says he is popping back to Beijing in October and asks whether he can stay at Nanxiao Lane. He does not mention the fact he has broken up with Chen Hong.
The last letter is from my father.
Come home to Qingdao. You can visit my friend’s lace factory and write an article on the success of his new management reforms. If you guarantee it will be published, his factory will pay you two thousand yuan for your expenses. . Be humble and courteous during your travels. Look after yourself — remember: your body belongs to the revolution.
My parents do not know I have resigned from my job. When I left Beijing I told them I was going away for a while to conduct some research into Chinese society.